


A Man of Quality

by snackycake



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Ableist Language Probably, Angst, Bad Decisions, Claire Standish is an Asshole, Explicit Language, F/M, Future Fic, John Bender Deserves Better, One Night Stands, Reunions, Revenge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snackycake/pseuds/snackycake
Summary: They meet again years later, by chance.
Relationships: John Bender & Claire Standish, John Bender/Claire Standish
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	A Man of Quality

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is aaaaancient. Like, 2005 ancient. It hasn't been posted anywhere else except my old Livejournal, and since I've recently decided to return to my first loves (writing and fandom), I figured I should dust this baby off, give it a few tweaks, and see if I could make it shine. I'm MUCH happier with the flow and dialogue. Practice makes [almost] perfect, right?
> 
> That being said, this version hasn't been beta'd or seen by any eyes but my own. If you like what you read, see mistakes, or feel like offering any feedback whatsoever, please drop me a line! I'm a bit nervous posting this after so long, so be gentle. :)

They meet again years later, by chance.

A flash, a shimmering movement, caught his eye as he pulled his flatbed onto the shoulder of the Northwest Tollway behind a disabled Mercedes. There she stood like a ghost – a wayward angel in a designer gown, illuminated in his headlights. Even after a couple of decades he knew immediately who she was.

He'd know _her_ anywhere.

She was soaked to the skin, her copper-bright hair darkened by the rain and coming down from its jeweled pins. Though the sequins on her gown still twinkled, her Louboutins were steeped in at least six inches of oily water. She clutched a tiny beaded handbag in one hand, her smartphone in the other. She looked cold and lost. Alone and bereft.

He climbed out of the truck's cab in a daze, grabbing his umbrella as an afterthought. On reflection, he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered; the rain was coming down in sheets, and each passing car tossed a wall of water in their direction. 

He finished his approach and managed to offer a cheerful, "Good evening!"

"Thank God." Her voice was cold and strident, utterly shattering the little-girl-lost illusion. _“Finally."_

He shrugged, mouth flattening into a bitter line. "Got here as fast as I could, considering.” He offered her the umbrella. "What seems to be the problem?"

She took it from him with a distant, noncommittal smile and popped it open before squelching toward the rear of the car. She pointed. "Two flats on this side, front and rear."

He hunkered down and whistled, impressed with the damage. A jagged strip of rubber was all that was left of the rear tire. "That's ugly." He scrubbed his thumb over the edge of destroyed chrome where the rim had gotten intimate with the asphalt. Icy water ran into the collar of his uniform and down his back. "These are run-flats,” he pointed out. “They must've been bad already for this much damage to happen."

"What do you mean?" Her tone was with edged annoyance. "Everything was fine when I left home."

"That's the problem with these." He swiped water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. "There's so little drama when you do get a flat, without some sort of pressure sensor – which this car _should_ have – some folks can’t tell the difference until it's too late."

"Oh," she sniffed. "That's what that little light meant." 

He smothered a smug grin as he moved to check the second tire. "That's most definitely what it meant."

"I wouldn't have called if it were just the one flat," she blurted out, loud and abrupt. As if embarrassed by her helplessness. It took all his willpower not to laugh at her. "I do have a spare, of course. In the trunk."

This time he failed to rein in his derisive bark of mirth. "You wouldn't have the foggiest idea what to do with that spare, Princess."

She went quiet. "Do I know you?"

"Nope.”

Without sparing her another glance he straightened, turned on his heel, and stalked back to his truck, slamming the door shut behind him. He skulked in the darkened cab as she opened the Mercedes’ passenger's side door and bent to root around inside. He toyed with the idea of driving away. Leaving her where she stood – much as she had done to him once upon a time.

 _Nah._ He’d never really been That Guy, not even in his darkest moments. No matter how much he liked to pretend. No matter how desperately he sometimes wished he _could_ be.

With a low, heartfelt curse he put the truck into gear and pulled around the Mercedes before backing into position. He again swiped impatiently at his brow, clearing away the dampness and the remains of his anger. Maybe his old man was right about him. Maybe he'd always have that big fucking chip on his shoulder. He was amazed that this girl – _woman,_ he corrected himself – could still put him on the offensive after all these years.

At last he convinced himself to head back into the rain, climbing onto the truck’s bed to prepare the wench and dig in his toolbox for hooks and chains needed to secure the Mercedes to the bed. He noticed she’d finished with whatever it was she had been doing and stood watching him, umbrella clasped tightly in both hands.

"You should probably go ahead and get in," he called over his shoulder. "I'm going to be awhile."

Her eyes flickered nervously between him and his truck. "Can't I just... ride in my car?" she asked. The disdain in her voice was almost palpable.

He smirked as he tugged the chains into place. "Against the law, Cherry."

There was a beat of shocked silence. Then, "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?” she demanded shrilly. “You can't talk to me that way, no one talks to me that way!"

"Really? No one?" Her outrage faded to shock as he swung down from the flatbed, landing with a splash at her feet. She stared, wide brown eyes fringed with wet lashes widening further, her rosebud mouth forming into an "o" of surprise. He flashed her a cocky smile. "Hey, Claire. Long time."

"Bender," she said faintly. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. "Oh, my God. John _Bender."_

He turned and went about his work. "So you do remember. Took you long enough."

"Of course I remember," she said. "I'm – I just – I never expected– This is such a surprise!"

He shrugged. "You think? Seems to me we’re both right where we always were."

She didn't reply, instead watching him work with a bemused expression on her face. He wished she would get in the cab and stop staring with those wounded Bambi eyes of hers, and after a while she did. He grinned, covertly watching as she struggled to climb into the rig's passenger seat. She eventually hiked her skirt up, almost to the juncture of her thighs, removing her heels so she could climb onto the step rail. 

He took his time with the wench, being purposefully clumsy with the hydraulic controls just to fuck with her, drawing out the process to make her wait. Regardless of how satisfying it might’ve been to give her a little grief, he had another motive for stalling: it allowed him precious time to get his bearings. By the time he climbed back into the cab he was past soaked and numbed by the cold, which had done much to clear his head. Without acknowledging her, he put the truck into gear and checked traffic before merging onto the toll road.

"Where you headed, dressed like that?" he asked after a few minutes of oppressive silence.

She sniffled, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn away to gaze out the window. "Christmas charity dinner at the Drake," she answered at last. "My husband is the keynote speaker."

"Well, well, well.” He chuckled. “Claire Standish caught herself a man of Quality. Surprise, surprise. What do you go by these days? For billing purposes, of course."

"Avery," she replied shortly. "Standish-Avery."

"Mrs. Claire Standish-Avery." He drew out each syllable with relish. "Has a special kind of ring to it, don't you think?"

She swung to face him, eyes ablaze. "What's your problem?"

"Just making conversation."

"I'd rather not, then, thank you very much."

"Ouch." He placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Claire."

She turned away once more, muttering, "Good to see _you_ haven't changed."

He couldn’t bring himself to reply, as it struck a little too close to home. They didn't speak for several long minutes, the sound of rain on the windshield and the rush of highway traffic filling the silence. Finally, he opened his mouth. "So, what does Mr. Standish-Avery do?"

She looked at him blankly. "Excuse me?"

"Your husband," he prompted, gesturing vaguely. "He's a keynote speaker; I've got an $80,000 Mercedes strapped to my rig; I assume he must do something important."

"Oh." She sniffed. "He's head neurosurgeon at Comer... The children's hospital."

"Wow. You really _have_ done well for yourself."

"Go to hell."

"It must be killing you to be stuck here with me right now. Dirty. Wet." She flinched as he reached to pluck at the skirt of her gown. "I’m pretty sure your dress is ruined."

"Do you think I care?" she demanded. "If you hate me so much, why did you even stop? Why didn’t you keep driving?"

"Because I'm not like you, Claire." he said quietly.

She started to cry, and he pretended the sight didn't affect him. "Goddamn you. I didn't need this." 

He braked as they approached the toll booths. The lines were miserably long, much like the years between them. When it was finally his turn to pay, he summoned enough nerve to exchange a cheerful word with the booth operator, specifically asking for a receipt, indicating the Mercedes on the flatbed and mentioning he was On Call For Chicagoland’s Monied Elite On A Night Like This. He smothered a grin at Claire's muffled exclamation of outrage as the booth operator handed over the receipt and wished him a Merry Christmas.

Once moving on the Kennedy Expressway and up to speed, Claire turned, all Bambi eyes and ruined makeup. "What happened to you?" 

He snorted, at once uncomfortable. "Me?”

"Yes, _you.”_ she said. "You just - disappeared one day. Up in smoke."

His hair and parts of his uniform had begun to dry under the fiery blast from the rig's dashboard vents. The exposed areas of his skin - covered in a film of oil, salt, and sand from the highway - felt tight and gritty. He squirmed in his seat. “I always thought you were smarter than you looked. What do you _think_ happened?"

"But where did you go? I asked around, but no one knew where you went, or why you left. It was like you dropped off the face of the earth."

He blinked at her admission, while something buried deep inside of him attempted to claw its way out. _She asked about me?_ At last he wrestled control of himself and pointed at the TB's Towing bumper sticker plastered on the dashboard in front of her. 

"Moved in with Uncle Tom. He gave me a job, a rig. Helped set me up on my own. And now here we are."

She shook her head and sighed, arms crossing over her breast. He realized she was shivering. He turned up the heat, nudging the vents to blow in her direction, then belatedly remembered he'd stashed his winter jacket in the space behind the passenger's seat. He reached to retrieve it, and offered it over. 

She stared at it briefly, expression blank, before taking and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said gruffly. "What about you, Claire? What happened after I 'went up in smoke?'"

"I caught myself a man of Quality," she said with deadly sweetness.

He snorted. "Obviously. I meant what happened between school and becoming some dumb schmuck's trophy wife?"

"I went to Amherst,” she said, shrugging. “That's in Massachusetts."

He glowered at her briefly. "No kidding.”

"I majored in communications – public relations," she continued, withering under his gaze. "The hospital offered me a position in their Oncology unit, and I accepted. That's how I met Spencer."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." John rolled his eyes, merging onto an exit ramp. "You married a guy named _Spencer?”_

"It's a perfectly respectable family name!"

"If you're a nouveau riche asshole."

She covered her mouth with a hand and turned away, but not before he caught the beginnings of a smile. After a few minutes of quasi-comfortable silence, she seemed to notice and grow concerned with their increasingly run-down surroundings. "Where are we going?" 

"My shop," he replied. "You can call a cab – or Mr. Standish-Avery – when we get there."

She turned and regarded him at length, those big Bambi eyes going sharp and calculating as she fiddled with the purse in her lap. "What are you doing tonight?"

He tossed her a narrow glance, noting her expression and fidgeting hands. "Besides being at the beck and call of every asshole with a AAA membership, you mean?"

"Well. It’s just...” She paused and made a helpless gesture, spreading both hands wide. “That car is Spencer’s baby, and I - I was stupid. I don't want to- He’s going to be-” She took a breath. “This is a big night for him, and I’m maybe kind of fucking it up."

“I don’t know, Cherry, this sounds like a job for Uber.”

“I don’t have an account.”

He snorted. "And _that_ sounds like a ‘you’ problem."

"I - I wondered if maybe you wouldn't mind taking me home." She hazarded a glance in his direction, then blanched and looked away once again. "I'll pay, of course."

John didn't trust himself to reply. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched. She must’ve realized her request hadn't gone over that well, because she shifted herself as far away from him as possible, huddling against the door with her face half-hidden in the collar of his jacket.

"You've got some nerve," he uttered at last, voice low. 

"It's not like I'm asking you for a _favor_ or anything like that. I said I'd pay you."

He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and took a breath. "Fair enough," he said between his teeth. "So, where's home?"

"Barrington."

She’d answered casually, as if the posh, tony suburb mentioned was a ten minute drive from downtown, instead of a good ninety minutes worth of toll roads, even without the holiday traffic. John couldn't help himself. He began to laugh.

"What?" she snapped. "John?" 

He could barely discern the street through tears of mirth, yet managed to turn onto North Kingsbury and make it to the front lot of his shop without crashing the rig. He shifted it into park and cut the engine, chuckling to himself as she trembled and glared.

Finally he heaved a sigh, wiping tears from his eyes with a knuckle. "Oh, Claire. You really are a spoiled brat."

She smacked his arm sharply with her purse. "You're an asshole."

"Yeah?" He grinned. "I'll remember that when I send your invoice." He pulled his keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket, and opened his door.

Her eyes widened. _“Where are you going?!”_ she demanded shrilly. 

He paused in surprise, one foot on the running bar, one halfway to the ground. "We're here. My shop," he added when her expression continued to hover somewhere between bewilderment and terror.

She blinked. "Oh." 

Said shop, located in the careworn, rusty industrial zone that hugged the Chicago River just above North Avenue, was small and cluttered, the dark wood paneling and orange vinyl furniture indicative of the 70's, when TB's Towing had been shiny and new. It featured three garage bays, and the ASE-certified mechanics to go with them. The gravel lot behind the shop was home to three patently unfriendly Rottweilers, and could hold well over three hundred vehicles. All was secured by twelve-foot-high fencing topped with razor wire. Even if he hadn't kept a full service department, he would've made a decent income as an impound lot alone.

He possessed enough self-awareness to recognize that he didn't like being forced to bring _her,_ of all people, to this place. He knew it wasn't the newest in town, or in the most impressive location, but it was his. He'd worked his fingers to the bone, scrimped and saved, and coughed up the cash to buy it. He was fiercely proud of that accomplishment, and he wasn't about to let Princess Claire Standish-Avery take that away from him.

He shut and locked the driver's side door. "You coming?" he said sharply when she continued to show no inclination to join him.

Claire opened her door after another moment's hesitation. John pretended to busy himself with the shop door's lock instead of watching her ungraceful exit from the cab. She landed in a rather deep puddle with a cry of dismay, and he barely suppressed another chuckle when she threw down her armful of damp skirts with a growl, pulled on her heels, and hobbled over the gravel to his side.

When he unlocked the last bolt and opened the door, a warning tone sounded. He slipped inside to punch his access code on the shop's alarm system keypad and received a short chirp of approval. With that out of the way, he swept his hand over the bank of light switches below the keypad, illuminating the lobby of his little shop. One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered weakly overhead as he swung the door open wide to admit her.

"Princess," he said with a mocking little bow. She swung at him again with her purse as she entered, her expression stormy.

"The phone." He pointed at the landline mounted at shoulder-height on the wood-paneled wall. "The bathroom is down the hall if you need it, last door on the left. I'll be in my office."

Then he turned on his heel, leaving her alone in the middle of the lobby, and stalked into his darkened office, firmly shutting the door behind him. Through cracks in the blinds covering the door’s window he caught a glimpse of her staring forlornly at the phone, her purse pressed tightly against her middle. He experienced a surge of satisfaction at her obvious discomfort, followed by a bigger wave of guilt. Angry with himself, he hissed out a sigh and retreated to the mini fridge behind his desk for a cold one.

 _Bad habit,_ he thought as he twisted off the bottle cap. Uncle Tom had warned him about keeping alcohol on premises, if only because of their family's long, storied history of chemical dependence, but John’s uncle was five years in the dirt, and not around to harangue him anymore. Besides, it wasn't as if John did this sort of thing every day.

And it definitely wasn't every day that he was haunted a ghost.

He threw himself into his chair, propping his feet on the cluttered desk in front of him and taking a long pull on his beer. On-call or no, he was his own boss, and had no intention of leaving the shop again that night. He figured he deserved a drink after having Princess Claire Standish-Avery unceremoniously dumped back into his life. He fervently wished she would hurry up, reach out and touch _someone,_ and get the hell out.

To force himself to stop watching her through cracks in the blinds, he turned on a desk lamp, picked up a three-year-old copy of _Car & Driver,_ and flipped through it as he drank his beer. Soon enough, he found himself reaching for another bottle, then a third. He stared at an incomprehensible comparison chart concerning SUV tip-over rates for an indeterminate amount of time before someone cleared their voice.

"John?" 

Claire stood in the doorway, her expression blank. He returned his attention to the chart. "Claire?" 

"I couldn't get Spencer on the line," she told him, voice steady.

He drained his third beer, attention doggedly locked onto the magazine. He dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket beside him. It hit the two other bottles resting at the bottom with a sharp clink. 

"What do you want me to do about it?" he finally asked. "I'm not public fucking transportation."

"John," she began, her voice threatening angry tears. "Please. I don't know what I've done, or why you hate me so much. I can't even begin to guess."

He took his feet off the desk, closed the magazine slowly, and carefully set it on a pile of paperwork in front of him. Then he leaned in, elbows on the desk, hands clasped before him. 

"Do you really want to know what my problem is?" he asked. She nodded in reply, prompting him to give her an unpleasant smile. _You asked for it, Princess._ "My problem is that after all these years, after leaving all the high school bullshit behind, you still believe you're better than everyone else."

Her jaw dropped. "No, I don’t!” she sputtered. “You don't even know me. How can you say that?"

"You're such a fucking liar, Claire," he scoffed. "You _know_ you think you're better than me. Otherwise you would've at least pretended to hesitate before asking me to drive several hours out of my way, round-trip. To chauffeur you back to your perfect little life, with your perfect little husband, in your perfect little McMansion."

"My life isn't perfect," she said hotly. "And I said I'd pay you!"

"Yes, of course. How could I have forgotten how you dangled _that_ little carrot? Because everyone's got their price, right? I'm just a lowly tow truck driver, so I must be so fucking hard up, _right?”_

She threw her head back, face tilted towards the ceiling tiles, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and into her hair. "I'm sorry, okay? I only asked because I thought we were friends. Or used to be. Friends ask friends for help. I only offered the money because you looked so angry; I thought it's what you wanted me to say."

"We're not friends, Claire." John said firmly. "We're not anything."

She took in a gasping breath before looking him hard in the eye. "I'm sorry for assuming," she said frostily.

They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments before he turned and retrieved another beer from the mini fridge behind him. He swiveled idly in his chair and asked, "So? Where does this leave us?"

Her eyes slid from his, focusing instead somewhere over his left shoulder. "Do you have another one of those?"

“You -” He pointed at her, then at the bottle in his hand. “Want a beer?”

She nodded resolutely, rubbing dampness from her cheeks.

"Sit." He gestured at one of the two chairs situated in front of his desk. “I’ll do you one better.”

So she sat, piling ruined sequined skirts into her lap. He put the unopened beer away, then pulled out the bottom desk drawer and lifted out the large bottle of Old Crow he'd been gifted by good ol’ Dad at the Bender family Christmas gathering the weekend before. 

"We're a little low-rent ‘round here. I hope you don't mind drinking from the bottle."

She shook her head, a corner of her mouth turning up. "Not at all."

They watched each other warily as he cracked the seal on the bottle, twisted off the cap, and took the first drink. Even after a few beers, the bourbon was unpleasantly sharp on his tongue, in his throat. Dad would buy the cheapest rotgut on the market. _Way to make an impression, Johnny Boy._ He coughed into the crook of his elbow as he held the bottle over the desk. She took it without fanfare and swallowed a healthy measure of her own. 

She gave him a wobbly smile. "You don't do this very often," she remarked, handing the bottle back.

"And you do this all the time," he shot back, halfway mortified by the hitch in his voice. He took another drink; this time it went down smoothly.

"Lots of cocktail parties," she agreed. "Charity events. Open bars." She shrugged. "It gets monotonous."

"Boofuckinghoo," he said without rancor. "Does Mr. Standish-Avery know how much you drink at all these social events?"

She merely smiled and reached for the bottle. They took several more turns before he finally capped and set it between them on the desk. He noted it was a great deal emptier than when they'd started - but then again, he'd always been a glass-half-empty sort of guy.

"So." He paused and heaved a sigh. "I suppose this means I'm stuck with Princess Claire for the rest of the night."

"Boofuckinghoo," she replied, those Bambi eyes of hers glittering.

He sat up straight in his chair. "You didn't even try to call your husband, did you?"

"He's cheating on me, you know."

"Yeah?" He rolled the bottle between his palms. "How long?"

"Not sure. I just found out, thanks to his assistant. She slipped up trying to cover for him." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "I guess they didn’t exactly make it a secret, but... I'm the last to know."

"So it goes." He eyed her warily. "Why are you telling me this?"

She shrugged. "You asked."

"No," he said slowly. "I asked if you called your husband; you avoided the question by bringing up the bit about him schtupping around. I'm beginning to think you're fishing for something, Claire."

"Am I being _that_ transparent?" she wondered.

"I think I know where you're going with this, and nope, nuh-uh. Not interested."

She raised one perfectly groomed brow. "No?"

He attempted to glower. "No."

She sighed and leaned to take the bottle from his hands. He watched through hooded eyes as she unscrewed the lid, brought the bottle to her lips, and tilted it back to take a long swallow. "This -” She made a face. “This stuff really is awful."

"What can I say?" John chuckled, folding his hands together behind his head and leaning back in his chair. The alcohol had caught up with him. Loosened him up. Spread a buzzing warmth over his limbs and settled nicely in his belly. "We Benders are a real cheap bunch."

She smiled and took another drink before recapping the bottle. He pretended not to notice how she nudged her skirts out of the way and pushed it between her thighs, how she wrapped her slim fingers tightly around the neck to hold it in place. He also ignored how the lamp brought out the copper highlights in her hair, and reflected warmth back to him from her cocoa-dark eyes. With her looking at him like that, he could almost forget he didn’t want her there. Almost. 

"What do you want, Claire?" he found himself wondering aloud.

"I want for nothing." Her expression was porcelain-smooth, her voice impassive. "I have it all. Money. A husband. A career. A summer home." She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "What about you?"

"No, don't make this about me. I'm not the one hiding."

She fixed him with a glare and abruptly pushed to her feet. The bottle hung lifelessly from her fingers. "I'm not hiding," she snapped. 

"I think you are," John retorted. "If you really have it all, then why are you still _here?”_ He pointed at the office door, his index finger a rigid, unforgiving line. "Why don’t you do me a big solid and call your husband, Princess? Go eat _hors o'dourves_ and drink champagne and dance the night away with all your poor rich friends. Maybe cry to _them_ about how you have everything, ‘cause I couldn’t even begin to care less.”

The look in her eyes was wild, her hand lifting the bottle as if she wanted to throw it at him. "I hate you."

"Yeah?" He grinned mirthlessly. "Well, the feeling's mutual."

Her eyes narrowed, gaze focused once again on a point just over his shoulder. "If that's true, why are you still wearing my earring?"

"It's not yours," he said automatically. He'd been waiting for her to call him out on that from the time she first recognized him back on the toll road. "You're not that girl anymore. It's obvious you haven't been that girl for a very long time."

She stared down at him wordlessly, tears glimmering on her lashes and trailing down either side of her face. He watched impassively as she approached, brandishing the bottle like a weapon, until she stood so close that he could feel the damp heat rolling off of her. She smelled like rain and bourbon and expensive French perfume.

"What do you want, Claire?" he repeated edgily. He tilted his head back to meet her stormy gaze. "Do you want to hit me, shout at me, tell me how much of a loser asshole I am?"

"No," she whispered, setting the bottle down on the desk. "I want you to touch me." 

He sat in numb, stunned silence as she grasped his wrist in her smooth, cool fingers and pressed his hand, palm flat, against the swell of her breast. His fingers spasmed involuntarily, digging into her creamy skin, and he swallowed before opening his mouth to say, "You're drunk."

"I’m pretty sure you are, too." She bared her teeth in an unpleasant smile. "But it's still what I want."

He stood, prick already as hard as his hands as they roved mindlessly over her body. She kept her gaze locked on his, her expression full of grim expectation. "This won’t change anything.”

"I know," she said.

"And don't get any crazy ideas about this earning you a discount."

There was a genuine flash of humor in her eyes. "Not a chance."

And then he bent to kiss her. 

Nothing about that kiss was delicate or gentle, and his touch was just as punishing. She leaned into and gasped against him, urging him on. He imagined leaving hand-shaped shadows beneath her translucent skin, marking her. It made her seem more real, more immediate. Less Mrs. Standish-Avery the cold and distant, the unattainable. She had been perfect even when soaked by the rain, with her makeup smudged by tears. Now he pressed his chapped lips and calloused fingers against every inch of bare skin he could reach and molded her back into the girl she was in the file closet with him all those years ago.

Her hands were at his belt, making quick work of the buckle before moving on to the button and zipper. The hand that slid into his boxers and grasped his cock was cool and capable; he felt the edge of her wedding ring, sharp against the sensitive underside, serving to remind him that neither of them were seventeen anymore. 

He shoved her back against the desk, disrupting a rolodex and a stack of green and white Service Reports from the office's old dot matrix. There was the sound of ripping fabric, and a muffled groan of dismay as he slid a knee between her thighs and forced them apart. 

"Thought you didn't care about the dress, Cherry," he murmured.

"I don't," she insisted. "Don't stop."

He obliged by placing both hands on her thighs and pushing the ripped skirt up to her hips and out of his way - and found her bare before him, a thatch of red hair curling at her center. He stilled, grinning down at her in amusement.

"What?" she snapped, shoving his shoulder with her free hand. The other loosened its grip on his shaft. "Don't look at me like that."

"Well, then." He chuckled, leering. "Guess you came prepared. Come on, Claire, level with me. Do you actually make a habit of fucking the help?"

There was a furious glint in her eyes, one bordering on dangerous. "Fuck you, John Bender," she seethed. 

"We’re getting to that part." He thrust into her hand, and she responded, fingers curving firmly around him once again. "Do you always free-ball it, then? Give your girl down there lots of fresh air? Dress her up, take her out?"

She fisted her free hand in his hair and yanked him in close, kissing him fiercely. The bourbon bottle tipped over with a weighty plonk, then quickly rolled out of reach and came to rest against the stand of the computer monitor that swayed precariously beside them on the desk. He laughed into her mouth, hands grasping her hips and pulling her closer, tugging her to the edge. She hurriedly yanked his boxers down his hips and took his cock in hand once again, guiding him to her entrance.

With a breathless groan and one slick, sliding movement he was completely buried in the wet heat between her thighs. She tilted her hips upward in a rhythm that matched his, and bit down on his bottom lip, hard. He pulled back with a glare, sucking on his injured lip and tasting blood.

"Oh, so that’s how it is. I bet ol' Spence doesn't like to play rough, does he?" he said viciously, grinding his pelvic bone hard against hers. She squeezed her eyes closed with a wordless cry, her hands fisted in the blue and white striped cotton of his uniform’s shirt. "Bet he treats you like a porcelain doll."

"No," she gasped, eyes still shut tight. Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. _“Just. Shut. Up.”_

"When - when have I ever?" he said, wheezing with exertion and mirth. One of his hands dropped down to grope her ass and pull her in harder. "It’s not in my repertoire."

Claire's polished fingernails dug deep into his neck and shoulders, and any reply she may have wanted to make was cut short by her own unintelligible cries. Her pussy gripped his cock tightly, an undulating pressure as he stroked deeply into her again and again. A shower of paperwork and magazines fell in a cascade from the desktop, joining the broken rolodex on the office floor.

Sensing she was close, he reached between their bodies to stroke her with as much finesse as he could manage, considering the ferocity of their joining. She keened in response and nipped at his neck none-too-gently. Just a few circling strokes of his thumb sent her veering sharply over the edge, her muscles milking his cock and triggering his own blinding release. He closed his eyes and cursed, head dropping to rest on her shoulder as he rode out his orgasm.

Almost before he could gather his wits, Claire shifted uneasily in his embrace, breaking the post-coital spell. And that was that. It was over, and everything he’d told her had been right on the money: _Nothing changed._

"Thank you." She kissed his neck as if to soothe the skin she'd caught in her teeth, and he shivered at the memory of how she'd kissed him there once before, too many decades ago.

"Yeah, sure," he said, pulling back slightly. Her eyes were large and dark, and unfathomably sad. "Likewise."

When she placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him away he didn’t resist. He slipped out of her, hands falling to his sides, as she slid off the desk to stand, skirts pooling around her feet. She swayed a little, and gave him a distracted smile when he reached for her elbow to steady her. 

"Do you want me to call that cab?" she asked quietly as he pulled up his boxers and buttoned his slacks. 

He gave her a halfhearted shrug. "Nah, not on my account. I got a bed set up in back, if you want to hang around. I'll drive you home in the morning."

She dropped her eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." 

Claire followed silently as he led her to the tiny makeshift bedroom at the end of the hall. He hit the wall switch and a lamp bathed the room in a dim, warm white light. A neatly made twin bed was pushed lengthwise against the far wall, the painted cinder block papered with several decades worth of old Valvoline calendars, and Playboy centerfolds. The bedside table held an antique brass lamp, a hefty stack of custom car magazines, and a few careworn Louis L'Amour paperbacks.

"Home sweet home." Noting the look on her face, he added, "I know it's not the Drake, but it's a bed, and it’s clean."

"This is where you _live?”_

"Well, fuck me. That’s a bold assumption.” He snorted, the previous irritation and general uneasiness caused by her presence making an epic comeback. “But don't you go feeling sorry for me, Princess. This is home when me, or one of my guys, is on call. I know it's probably hard for you to wrap your pretty little head around, but I got myself a real nice place on the other side of the river."

"Sorry." Her voice sounded quiet, small. "I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, well, whatever." He interrupted her attempted apology with a curt gesture. "The bathroom is across the hall if you need it. I'll be in my office."

She stepped in close; he pretended it didn’t phase him. "You're going to sleep in your office?"

"Not a problem. I’ve done it before."

"Oh." She looked around the small room again. "Well, thanks. I appreciate this. I appreciate everything." He smirked, and she rolled her eyes. "I really mean it, John."

"Don't thank me yet," he advised , openly leering at her. "Just wait 'til you get the bill."

"Hmm.” Her lips curved, and her eyes assessed. “I think I can afford you.”

His smile grew tight. "I know."


End file.
